Parshas Yisro 5785
This past week I attended an event that has come to be institutionalized as a rite of passage for young Jewish children: The Siddur Play. As I sat watching the performance, I couldn’t help but feel how delightfully unusual such an event is against the backdrop of popular culture. That children gather together to extoll the virtues of Tefilah and literally sing its praise. The pomp and circumstance surrounding the moment a child first receives his or her very own siddur and is given the ability to now readily connect with Hashem in prayer.
It’s an event that I hope created memories that will last. Because the feelings certainly won’t.
One of the most iconic components of all of Matan Torah is only barely mentioned by the pesukim in Parshas Yisro that describe the event. The pasuk notes that “ויתיצבו בתחתית ההר—And the people stood beneath the mountain.” Simply understood, the pasuk means to say that the People stood at the bottom, or base of the mountain, as the awesome spectacle began to unfold on the summit.
But the Gemara Shabbos 88a takes the Torah’s description much more literally:
אָמַר רַב אַבְדִּימִי בַּר חָמָא בַּר חַסָּא: מְלַמֵּד שֶׁכָּפָה הַקָּדוֹשׁ בָּרוּךְ הוּא עֲלֵיהֶם אֶת הָהָר כְּגִיגִית, וְאָמַר לָהֶם: אִם אַתֶּם מְקַבְּלִים הַתּוֹרָה מוּטָב, וְאִם לָאו — שָׁם תְּהֵא קְבוּרַתְכֶם.
Rav Avdimi bar Chama bar Chasa said, “This teaches that The Holy One Blessed Be He overturned the mountain above them like a barrel and said, “If you receive the Torah, good. But if not, there shall be your graves.”
When the people stood under the mountain, Rav Avdimi tells us, they actually stood under the mountain. Hashem suspended the mountain above the heads of the people and provided an ultimatum: Either receive the Torah, or be killed.
There is an observation that many make about the specific phraseology the Gemara uses. Hashem didn’t tell the nation that if they don’t accept the Torah, they’d be buried “here,” in this very spot. But rather, “There shall be your graves.” Suggesting some yet unknown location, on some distant future day.
The Shem Mishmuel notes that this observation is absolutely correct. Hashem wasn’t telling the people that without acceptance of the Torah—without a binding commitment—that they’d immediately gasp for spiritual oxygen and would be left without any connection to G-d that would serve as their very lifeline. No, considering the thunder and lightning, the parting of the Heavens, and the blossoming of the mountain in the middle of the desert—all following the miraculous redemption of the Jewish People from Egyptian slavery—inspiration was running so high, that the People would hold on to a divine connection even without the formal acceptance of the Torah and its mitzvos.
At least for now.
The concern was not over the present moment, but over what would happen in the future. “There shall be your graves.” For now you’ll stay connected. But the connection will ebb, the inspiration will dissipate. It may not feel like that’s an eventuality considering where you presently stand and how you presently feel. But it will. And when it does, you’ll languish and die.
A Siddur Play is a wonderful event, not because it encapsulates the fresh feelings that children have towards tefilah, but because it frames tefilah as a lifelong value, something of such significant importance that it demands that a ceremony be held, that parents take off work, that grandparents drive in, and that cake be served. The feelings of the moment are sweet and endearing, but they will not last.
And that’s not excessive, undue negativity, but a mere acknowledgment of reality. Feelings never last. And if we hang our behavior upon our feelings, our behavior will be highly inconsistent because our feelings always are.
A Siddur Play is a statement of importance and value. We’re not trying to encourage our kids to always feel great about davening, but to always daven, irrespective of how they feel. Feelings will fluctuate; appropriate behavior shouldn’t. This is what lies at the heart of every commitment.
Which isn’t just kids’ stuff. And it poses a critical question to adults: Can we create Siddur Plays for ourselves? Inspiration rises and falls in fairly natural rhythm. What can be done in moments of inspiration to not just ride the wave and enjoy, but to spend time recognizing in that moment of clarity that there will come a time that the value of this practice or behavior will no longer be so clear? What commitment can I make to myself here at Har Sinai so that the “There” I ultimately arrive at is not only a location of premature spiritual death?
One component is the commitment, and formalizing it as best as possible. Whether sharing the practice with an accountability partner, writing a letter of intent to yourself, or even keeping a list of spiritual commitments on a note on your phone. The act of committing can go a long way in holding yourself accountable even when the enthusiasm has waned.
Another component is adopting the right mindset when we’re no longer inspired. And that’s a mindset of moderation. Not jumping to conclusions that our previous feelings were off base, and that our present ones make clear that our previous attempts at spiritual growth were foolish. We need to be patient and kind to ourselves, and remember that there’s a reason we made the commitment in the first place. That it’s only natural for inspiration to dissipate, but that that doesn’t need to affect our recognition that values we’d committed to right and good, even if we don’t now feel so viscerally.
Hashem’s concern for the Jewish People was not how they’d act when they’re inspired, but how they’d act when they’re not. And that is a question that looms over our heads today as much as it did at Har Sinai. We know that our feelings will falter. What can we do to ensure that our behavior doesn’t?